A good man
by MajesticWoodlandNelf
Summary: Sherlock taped the entire rooftop conversation with Moriarty, leaving his phone where Lestrade could find it and discover the truth about his suicide.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: I have seen several fan theories about Sherlock possibly taping the roof top conversation between himself and Moriarty and I'd thought I'd try my hand at writing it. Reviews are welcome.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

Greg Lestrade stood at the door leading out to the rooftop of St. Bart's hospital, his hand hovering slightly over the door handle.

He knew this was going to be difficult. It had been a moment he was dreading ever since the call came in and now here he stood, unwilling to breach that final barrier.

He had managed to avoid the spot where Sherlock's body had fallen, he couldn't bare to see the cracked concrete and dark stain that was left behind but the roof was another story. He owed it to Sherlock to investigate.

The chief superintendent had written it off as a suicide with a sneer and a 'good riddance' but Greg knew that couldn't be the whole story.

This was Sherlock they were talking about, never in a million years would he ever even consider taking his life, even with the smear campaign that was launched against him. He would find some incredibly clever way to prove himself right so he could rub it all in their faces. Never before had he wanted to be wrong so badly.

He didn't believe all the things the media was saying about him. There was no way someone could fake such arrogant brilliance. No, he knew Sherlock wasn't a fraud.

 _"You still arrested him,"_ a voice in his head said. _"You still doubted him, even if it was only for a moment."_ Greg took a deep breath and tried to push the poisonous thoughts from his mind, tears prickling behind his eyes.

When he thought back on his actions over the past few days, he was ashamed. How could he let Anderson and Donovan plant that seed of doubt in his mind, how could he have allowed that? Sherlock was right, he was an idiot.

He didn't stop the accusations when he could have. Instead he let that seed of doubt grow in the minds of his colleagues until it was a gnarled monstrosity that he couldn't kill. And for that, he would never forgive himself.

Taking another deep breath, Greg pushed open the door and stepped into the sunlight. The soles of his shoes clacked against the concrete as he took a few hesitant steps.

The roof top was empty, as he knew it would be. He had it marked as a crime scene despite the expressed orders of the chief superintendent.

It was hard to see why something so innocuous could have caused such an effect on him. Steeling his resolve he took a few more steps and allowed his brain to shift into auto pilot.

Blocking out emotions was a very Sherlock thing to do but Greg had to admit it had it's perks. Who wouldn't want to feel nothing when what you were feeling was nothing but heartbreak?

He got to work, taking photographs and dusting for fingerprints. Usually that would be Anderson's job but Greg wanted that man nowhere near him. It was Anderson and Donovan who had drove Sherlock to this and Greg would be damned if he let them smear him anymore.

It was almost dusk before he was finished. The sun had started to dip low in the sky, sending a array of colors streaming above him. Greg straightened his back, which protested about the rough treatment and rubbed at his stiff neck.

He was about to make his his way back to the steps when he saw it. A half hidden cell phone, glinting in the sun. He knew instantly that it was Sherlock's. His phone hadn't been found on his body but Greg knew he had made a call to John just moments before. He must have thrown it before...

Lestrade pried it from it's hiding spot and flipped it on, surprised to find it wasn't password protected. That was strange. He knew that Sherlock kept a password on his phone, he had seen him type it in on may occasions before using it. So why was it not there now?

Sherlock would probably chew him a new one if he knew Greg was going through his things but right now he didn't care, he needed answers and right now the phone was the only thing that might be able to help him.

He stopped scrolling when he saw the recording, dated the day Sherlock died. With shaking hands, he pressed play.

The faint melody of The Bee Gees "Staying alive" had him arching his eyebrows in confusion for a second before the speaking began.

Lestrade had heard that soft Irish brogue only a few times before but he knew who it belonged to, James Moriarty or Richard Brook, whatever the hell he was calling himself.

"Did you almost start to wonder if I was real?" Moriarty's tauntings sparked a fire inside of Lestrade and he felt the overwhelming urge to punch something, preferably the man himself.

This had to have been recorded while Sherlock was on the roof, sometime in between when John had left him and when he jumped to his death. Sherlock hadn't been up here alone.

He kept talking; Moriarty, completely unaware he was being recorded. Sherlock got it all on tape, the whole convertation. Greg felt his heart swell with pride for the man who he had come to love like a son.

Until he heard the word, suicide. With his heart racing in his chest, Lestrade listened as Moriarty baited Sherlock, goading him into taking his own life.

"Let me give you a little extra incentive, your friends will die if you don't." The phone nearly slipped from his hand.

"John," Sherlock's voice shook with the single syllable.

"Not just John. Everyone."

"Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade?" The tears he was desperately trying to hold back blurred his vision and a few stubborn ones slipped down his cheeks.

"Three bullets, three gunmen, three victims. There's no stopping them now. Unless my people see you jump."

No, he wanted to scream. Adrenaline coursed through his veins and his body screamed for him to take action, to stop it from happening, to change the outcome. But there was nothing to be done, nothing but to sit and listen.

A shot sounded, making Lestrade jump and for a moment he wondered if it had actually come from the tape. Why was there a shot? Sherlock hadn't been shot.

He had been so engrossed in what was about to happen he had almost missed what they were saying. It took a second for it to register with him. Moriarty had shot himself. But where was the body?

Greg could hear Sherlock's panicked breaths in the seconds that followed and he decided what to do and then it was calm; the video ended.

Lestrade sat there for a moment, his body shaking of it's own volition as the words swirled around and around in his mind. A scream of anguish tore from his lips as he clutched the phone hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

That bastard, that bloody bastard. How could he do this to them? He had waltzed into their lives and dazzled them with his deductions. He made them care about him. He made them love him, each in a different way. And then he goes and rips it all apart, leaving a gaping hole that no one will ever be able to fill.

The man without a heart, they called him. A sociopath. But that was never true. Sherlock Holmes had the biggest heart out of any of them. He saved them; all of them. He took his own life to ensure they would go on living theirs.

 _"Sherlock Holmes is a great man,"_ he had once said. _"And maybe one day, if we're very very lucky, he might even be a good one."_ Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade counted himself lucky to have known the great Sherlock Holmes; a good man.

Sliding down the ledge, Greg lowered himself onto the floor and finally let himself cry.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock's mobile phone was tucked safely in Lestrade's pocket where it had been burning a hole for the last two days.

He hadn't really been sure what to do with it. It wasn't technically evidence since Sherlock's death had been declared a suicide and therefore an open and shut case.

Greg knew the recording he had found on the phone could change that in an instant, yet somehow it seemed far to personal to be made public. Sherlock would chastise him for his sentiment but that didn't stop Greg from feeling it.

Finally near the end of the second day, Lestrade came to a decision. The media continued to drone on about Sherlock being a fraud and a coward for taking his own life and he just couldn't allow that to continue, not when he knew the truth.

As he headed out of the office for the night, he decided he would introduce the new evidence first thing in the morning but there was something he needed to do first. Someone who deserved to to hear the truth before those media hounds got a hold of it.

Lestrade hadn't seen John Watson since the funeral nearly a week ago. He could hardly bring himself to look at the man as he stood stoic and dressed in all black next the the closed coffin. The last time he had spoken to John was when he came around to 221b to arrest Sherlock and he didn't particularly want to think that time.

Still he deserved to know the truth about why Sherlock had taken his own life. Why he was murdered, Lestrade mentally corrected, because it was murder.

Lestrade pulled to a stop in the parking lot of the hotel where John was staying. He had all but moved out of 221b, or so Mrs. Hudson had said when he saw her a few days before. Too many memories, she told him with a sigh.

Lestrade couldn't help but agree with her. He hadn't particularly wanted to walk back into that flat and see Sherlock's science equipment packed away in boxes and his violin set aside to collect dust.

Greg was able to get John's room number from the sleepy receptionist who looked as if she wanted to be anywhere but behind the desk and quickly made his way to the room. He wasn't anymore eagar to speak with John than he had been to step onto St. Bart's rooftop but he figured the man had been waiting long enough for the truth.

Mentally berating himself for his cowardice, Lestrade rapped sharply on the door. There was a slow, faint shuffle from inside before the door opened and a teary eyes John looked up at him in surprise.

"I know it's late," he said, softly. "But I need to speak with you."

"Greg..."

" _Please,_ " Lestrade begged. John nodded slowly, stepping back to grant him access to the room.

Like many hotel rooms it was cold and impersonal. A half open duffel bag was all the proof that anyone was even staying here. Lestrade took a seat in an empty chair while John sat heavily on the edge of the bed.

"What's this about, Greg?" Lestrade cleared his voice before speaking.

"It's about Sherlock." John's face twisted in a grimace as he tried and failed to muffle a sob.

Greg fought the overwhelming urge to gather him up in his arms like he would a child and tell him everything would be alright. But he knew that would be a lie. Suddenly he wasn't sure if telling John the truth would be beneficial to him but it was too late to turn back now.

Slowly he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the mobile, flipping it over in his hands. John's eyes were immediately drawn to the object.

"He wasn't alone on that roof." At John's confused stare, Lestrade decided it would be easier to just play the tape. With shaking hands he started the recording.

John's body went rigid as the first notes of the song that had so confused Lestrade started to play. Clearly he knew what it had meant.

Sherlock's deep, baritone voice seemed to cause John more anguish but he stayed silent as the recording continued to play.

Lestrade knew what was coming but that didn't stop his heart from skipping a beat as Moriarty detailed how he planned to kill them if Sherlock didn't jump. He couldn't bring himself to look at John but the sobs that he no longer tried to muffled tore at his heart.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity but could only be five minutes at the most, the recording ended. The silence was almost deafening in the room but neither of them said a word. Lestrade let the phone rest on his knee, taking care that it wouldn't fall.

"John," Lestrade said after a moment.

"Please," John cut him off. "Don't." Lestrade nodded in understanding. He needed this time to grieve.

"Tomorrow I will be admitting this recording as evidence," Lestrade said softly. "People will know the truth about him. He deserves that much."

Lestrade slipped the phone back in his pocket and made for the door.

"Greg," John called to him. Lestrade stopped in his tracks and glanced back over his shoulder. "Thank you."

Lestrade nodded, knowing there was nothing more that needed to be said. Sparing one last glace back to the broken man, Greg silently closed the door and headed for his car.

Tomorrow he would see that justice was done.


End file.
